The maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it’s unattainable, all the same.
BAYARD TAYLORThe maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it’s unattainable, all the same.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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Although Damascus is considered the oldest city in the world, the date of its foundation going beyond tradition, there are very few relics of antiquity in or near it.
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I know I am–that simplest bliss The millions of my brothers miss. I know the fortune to be born, Even to the meanest wretch they scorn.
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Opportunity is rare, and a wise man will never let it go by him.
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And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy’s bonfire spread.
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As I toiled up the Mount of Olives, in the very footsteps of Christ, panting with the heat and the difficult ascent, I found it utterly impossible to conceive that the Deity, in human form, had walked there before me.
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But who will watch my lilies, When their blossoms open white? By day the sun shall be sentry, And the moon and the stars by night!
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Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare The summer to its rose may bring; Far sweeter to the wooing air The hidden violet of spring. Still, still that lovely ghost appears, Too fair, too pure, to bid depart; No riper love of later years Can steal its beauty from the heart.
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To Truth’s house there is a single door, which is experience.
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An enthusiastic desire of visiting the Old World haunted me from early childhood. I cherished a presentiment, amounting almost to belief, that I should one day behold the scenes, among which my fancy had so long wandered.
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Fame is what you have taken, / Character’s what you give; / When to this truth you waken, / Then you begin to live.
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Love’s humility is love’s true pride.
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Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, And soon the grassy coverlet of God Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.
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Higher than the perfect song For which love longeth, Is the tender fear of wrong, That never wrongeth.
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The lamp you lighted in the olden time Will show you my heart’s-blood beating through the rhyme: A poet’s journal, writ in fire and tears… Then slow deliverance, with the gaps of years.
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The clouds are scudding across the moon, A misty light is on the sea; The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, And the foam is flying free.
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